


Pulling Punches

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: (reference/mention/discussion), Fitz backstory, Fitz' family, Gen, Past Domestic Violence, headcanons, mama may, mamma may - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 15:22:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5296436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fitz has difficulty with hand-to-hand combat, and it’s not just because he doesn’t want to hit a girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pulling Punches

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a headcanon I have about Fitz' dad (and the suspicious absence of him)...Message me here or on Tumblr (also theclaravoyant) for more details or to discuss. I'll be over here, hugging Fitz and apologising profusely for my relentlessly angsty mind.

“You good?” May raised an eyebrow. Simmons smiled. She could taste her own sweat, feel it cooling on her face, but she was still living in the rush of the flip she’d just done. Even getting floored and winded immediately afterward had barely served to dampen her spirits.

“Alright. Fitz, get up here.”

Fitz nodded stiffly. He’d been hovering at the base of the dais for some time, watching. Mostly watching May throw Simmons around the mat, but Simmons got a few good shots in occasionally. He would have voiced his pride, if he could have found the words, underneath a profound terror that was creeping through his veins, paralysing his limbs. Haltingly, he began pulling his sweater off. He never should have put it back on. He’d only been off the floor for five minutes. He should have kept moving. His lactic acid was going to hate him for this.

“Any time this week,” May prodded, deadpan.

“Right.” He tossed the jacket aside and stepped up onto the dais. His stomach churned. Nothing about this felt right. The plastic surface of the mat felt strange, slippery and sharp at once under his bare feet. He was wearing a tank top of all things, and Jemma was opposite him, smiling though she could probably taste her own sweat by now. She bounced on the balls of her feet. She had a wild glint in her eyes; exactly the kind that she’d displayed instants before dragging him to the Field Training Office to inquire about what one might do to pursue an interest in fieldwork. Exactly the kind he loved so much, loved for the kick of anticipation - in all its terrible glory - that it used to give him, wondering what she was dragging him into.

He sunk, reluctantly, into a combat stance.

“Go.”

In an instant, he was on the floor, flipped onto his back after his knees had been knocked out from under him.

“Fitz. Head in the game, come on,” May prodded as he stood. Simmons’ smiled dropped for a moment.

“Fitz?”

“I’m fine, Jemma.” He squeezed his eyes shut. He could remember the feeling of his knuckles against the punching bag. The way his shoulders felt so strong. His breathing. Right down to his gut. Not for the first time, he thought of Jemma’s flesh beneath his hands – of enjoying hitting her as much as he’d enjoyed hitting the bag – of falling against a counter, hitting his head, hearing his mother get in between them -

“I won’t sweep you this time,” Jemma vowed. “It was fun, but I promise I’ll let you get a shot in. It’s the least I can do. You’re standing in front of me in a tank top, after all.” She smiled to let him know she was teasing, but the watery mimic he returned was unsettling.

He lowered himself into a ready stance again, and she did the same. He frowned deeply, preparing himself. Eventually, he struck out. She dodged and let him try again, taking a softened angle of the blow so that she could position herself close enough to hit him back. She did, and he dodged, and came back at her stronger.  _This is better_ , she thought, as their arms weaved and their feet stepped back and forward like dancers. Then she blocked him and aimed for a jab to his rib cage and felt a sharp pain run up her arm when he grabbed her outstretched arm and twisted it, forcing her down on one knee. She sucked in a breath to help her think through the shock.

But then she felt her arm drop.

“God. Jemma. I –“ Fitz backed away. Rolling her shoulder to check that no harm had been done – and it hadn’t – Simmons stood. She held her arms out to their full extension, demonstrating her unrestricted capacity.

“You didn’t hurt me,” she promised, a little sharper than she’d meant. Sharper than Fitz deserved.

“Good. Good.” His voice was weak. His face was deathly pale, and shining with more sweat than his physical exertion had probably called for. She probably should have felt sorrow, or sympathy, but her irritation was stronger.

“If we’re going to do this, you’ve got to be all in, Fitz.” She was practically snapping at him now. “Nobody else is going to pull their punches because I’m a girl. If I die because you were trying to be a gentleman, I’ll – I’ll -”

“It’s not that.” He shook his head, but he still didn’t look at her. He looked at the roof, hands on his hips, as if he was having trouble breathing. Simmons frowned.

“Alright. Take five, Jemma.” May nodded her off the mat. As Simmons hobbled off the dais, Fitz felt his heart sink.

“May,” he began, turning back to her, “I-“

“You don’t want to hit Simmons. That’s fine. I was expecting that. It’s okay. You’ve worked hard. I’ll cut you a deal.” She lowered into a combat stance. “Land one hand on me and we can all call it quits for the day.”

Fitz heard Simmons’ knee fall hard against the mat, the resistance of her twisted arm in his hand, the sharp gasp. He thought of the punching bag – of hitting her – of throwing her to the ground as May had not five minutes earlier. The clutter of drawers. Pretending he was asleep while his heart raced out of his chest. His hand wrapped around the screwdriver under his pillow. At least that was out of play.

His knees trembled. Bile rose in his throat. The room spun and his ears rang, piercing.

“I’m sorry,” he managed. “I can’t.”

Before she could get another word in, or even fix him with one of her Looks, he turned and fled the dais. He abandoned his drink bottle, his jacket, and Simmons’ puzzled, concerned face, and made a beeline for his room at the highest walking speed he could muster.


	2. Opening Doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Fitz walks out of training, May goes to investigate.

Fitz paced in the space between his bed and the door to his room. He strode across the floor and back, his heart hammering, massaging his bad hand with his good one. He could still feel the twist of her wrist. He hadn’t thought about that in such a long time. He’d thought it was so far behind him.

His stomach turned. He stopped pacing, and braced, half expecting that he might throw up then and there. It might have released some tension, at least. Doubled over as he was, Fitz took a few slow, deep breaths, until he could no longer feel his heart pounding in the back of his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut. God, he was being so stupid. And now Jemma thought he was treating her lesser and he would _never_ – if he could just open his mouth and _tell her_.

But he couldn’t. He mustn’t. He’d gone all this time and never told a soul. Nobody knew then and they didn’t need to know now.

They wouldn’t mind. They wouldn’t blame him, of course they wouldn’t.

But he’d noticed the way they looked at Daisy – even still, even now, sometimes. Like they just needed to double check that she wasn’t a monster. That she wasn’t too much like her mother.

He remembered his own mother sitting on his bed beside him, stroking his hair like he was five instead of fifteen. He couldn’t remember where the room was, now – his grandma’s, maybe. They’d moved around a lot after they’d got out. But he did remember what she’d said to him, that sometimes things happen that turn people you love, into people who don’t love you any more. Into people who get too angry, too upset, and stop seeing you, or see you as their problem. He’d certainly been blind to Jemma for a while there. He’d been so angry. Who’s to say that wouldn’t happen to him? He couldn’t be certain of it himself, so how could anyone else?

Fitz crawled onto his bed, right up to where his pillow usually rested. He drew his knees up and hugged his pillow to his chest. The burning need in his muscles to move fizzled into a light prickle, and he closed his eyes, relief and gratitude washing through him as the anger and the fear dissipated. He still felt violently ill, but at least here, he could convince himself it was over.

Then, there was a knock.

“Yeah.” Fitz answered instinctively. Hearing his own voice, he wondered if they could hear the weight of tears like he could. It was too late now; he’d agreed to let them in.

And ‘they’ were May. And May looked distinctly displeased. She nodded over her shoulder at the doorway, gesturing back to the training mat, out of sight.

“What happened out there?” Her clipped tone suggested there should have been a ‘the Hell’ somewhere. Maybe it was the tears on his face that made her edit it out, or the way he was huddled so small in a space that was entirely his to take up.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. She pursed her lips and glared.

“I don’t want to box your ears for being such a child, but I will.”

 _Stop it. Stop it._ He bit his tongue. She didn’t know.

“Simmons trusts you out there. You’ve got to trust her too. She knows what she’s doing. She’s good, believe me. She can take it.”

“She shouldn’t have to take it.”

May sighed. “Of course not. And ideally, she wouldn’t. But she knows, and I know, and you know, that we’re all in danger here. She might have to defend herself, and when that moment comes, she needs to be ready. Really ready. She needs to have honest training partners.”

 _Honest._ Fitz snorted. More tears spilled over his cheeks. He moved to wipe his face on his cardigan, and realised he wasn’t wearing one. He cast his eyes around the room for one, and met May’s recalculating gaze. It was softer than her voice implied. But then her voice softened to match.

“There’s something going on with you. Something you haven’t told us. What?”

The question was gentle, and it sounded like his answer was the most important information in the world. _Just tell her. Just say it._ His mouth flailed for the words.

“I- It- It…was Dad. He…he, um-“ His eyes rolled toward the roof and he blinked back tears.

“He what?” May moved quietly over to his set of drawers as Fitz explained, haltingly:

“He used to- hit- Mum. Mostly. Me, sometimes, but ah…”

May came back across the room and sat on the side of his bed, by his feet. She passed him a bundle of grey wool. A cardigan. His favourite. She nodded, reassuring, and he unravelled it and struggled into it, glad to cover up his shoulders again.

“He didn’t like me much. I think he thought…there was something wrong with me. God, if he could see me now…”

“He can’t.”

“I know. Yeah. I know.” He let out a deep breath, nodding to himself, thinking of the miles and the years between them. Under May’s protective gaze, he wiped his cheeks with the sleeves of his cardigan and then hugged it close. He hadn’t realised how cold it was. May hitched up the blanket, to cover his feet.

“Does Simmons know about this?”

“No. Nobody knows.” He shook his head.

“Is your mother okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, I haven’t spoken to her since…but she’s out – we got out – before the Academy. She’s fine. I thought- I thought I was fine too. I’m sorry.”

May shook her head, brushing off his apology. “Feeling like you can’t trust yourself, that’s what today was about, right? You weren’t just thinking about your mum. You were thinking about Jemma. You were thinking about hitting her, what that might mean, what it might lead to – right?”

The feel of her flesh against his hands, like the punching bag. He swallowed it down, and nodded. He pressed his good thumb into his bad palm, and May caught both of his hands under one of hers. She fixed her eyes on his.

“People with a lot worse intentions towards her than you are going to fight her one day. She needs her training to prepare her for that. You need to trust her to let you know if she’s getting uncomfortable. People get hurt in training, they get hurt in fighting – it’s when you can’t be open and equal and forgiving about it, that’s when the real problems start.”

“Can’t you just train her without me?”

“I could do that. But there are two reasons I won’t. One: you know Simmons, she’d be curious. She’d want to know why you pulled out. And I think she knows deep down that it’s not just because she’s a girl, don’t you?

But the second reason is this. You’re still here, and that matters. I’m not just training her. I’m training you. And if you can’t control yourself around someone you love more than your own life, how might you handle being around someone you’d rather see dead?”

She held his hands a moment longer, waiting for the words to settle in, then she pulled away and stood up.

“Simmons is outside,” she said. Fitz looked past her, to the door. He felt the way he was still hunched over his pillow. He slowly unfolded himself, and took a deep breath as he cast his pillow aside.

“Let her in.”


End file.
